So wobbly, at first.
No idea how to navigate,
no idea how to survive a meeting with an iceberg,
a tumble over Niagara Falls,
the free-fall of the mind,
the winding river, the unpredictable waves.
Breathe, says the master. Don’t hold your breath.
But I find myself tightening my life-vest,
and clinging to the sides.
Take it all as it comes, says the master,
the twists, the turns,
the scraping of the hull,
the long portage,
the doldrums and the rapids.
But I keep hitting rocks, I say.
Get rid of the paddle, says the master.
And when I finally do, I float,
buoyant as a plover,
high above the little creek I used to call my head.